Chapter 38
THIRTY-EIGHT
zane
Sunrise Manor looks different in the daylight.
The last time I was here, it was dark, and I was burdened by federal investigations and syndicate threats. Now it’s a bright Tuesday afternoon, and I’m sitting in Tate’s truck trying to work up the nerve to walk through those automatic doors.
“You don’t have to do this today,” Tate says from the driver’s seat.
“Yeah, I do.”
“We could come back next week. Or next month. Whenever you’re ready.”
It’s been six weeks since I got out of the hospital. I’ve been going between physical therapy and doctor appointments, trying to get my strength back. Tate moved me into his place because I couldn’t handle being alone, of waking up in the middle of the night thinking I was back in that warehouse.
And my dad has no idea about any of it.
“What if he doesn’t recognize me again?” I ask.
“Then we’ll deal with it.”
“What if he’s worse than last time?”
“Then we’ll deal with that, too.”
“What if seeing him in bad shape fucks me up for days?”
“Then I’ll be there to help you through it.” He smiles. “Because I love you.”
I turn my head to look at him, at the man who’s been taking care of me without complaint, who drove me here even though he had practice this afternoon, who’s been patient with my night terrors and panic attacks.
“I love you, too. More than you’ll ever know.”
“I have an idea.” He opens his door. “Come on, let’s go see your dad.”
The lobby smells of the same disinfectant I remember. The receptionist smiles at me, and I recognize her from my last visit.
“Mr. Christensen! It’s good to see you again. How are you feeling?”
“Better, thanks.”
“That’s great to hear.” She flashes a bright smile, her green eyes twinkling. “Your father’s been asking about someone named Zane all morning. Keeps saying his son is coming to visit.”
My chest constricts. “He remembers me?”
“He remembers something. Come on, I’ll take you to his room.”
We follow her down the hallway, past closed doors and fluorescent overhead lights. Everything feels different now. Less like I’m drowning.
Maybe because Tate’s here.
The room is bright and airy, but my stomach drops when I see Dad. He looks smaller than last time. He’s staring at the television, but his eyes are vacant. Empty.
When we walk in, he turns toward us and immediately tenses, clutching the hem of his sweatshirt.
“Who are you? What do you want?” His voice rises in fear. “Nurse! Who are these strangers?”
“Dad, it’s okay—”
“I don’t know you! Get away from me!” He grips the arms of his chair, trying to push himself back.
I look at Tate, who nods toward my phone in my pocket.
Right. The video.
I pull out my phone, open the video I recorded. My own voice fills the room.
“Hi, Dad. It’s me, Zane. I know sometimes you get confused about who I am, but I’m your son... ”
My father stops trying to get away, his attention captured by the familiar voice. His eyes move between the phone screen and my face, confusion replacing the fear.
“Zane?” His voice is uncertain, still wary.
“Yeah, Dad. It’s me.”
“You look different. Older.” His eyes search my face.
“I am older. It’s been a long time.”
“Has it? I... ” Confusion seeps into his expression. “I get mixed up.”
“That’s okay, Dad.”
His eyes well up. “I’m sorry I didn’t know you. You’re my boy, aren’t you?”
“Yeah, I’m your boy.”
I motion to Tate. “This is Tate. He’s... ” I look at him, not sure how to explain further. “He’s important to me.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Christensen,” Tate says, stepping forward to shake his hand.
“Call me Robert. And it’s nice to meet you, too.” My father studies Tate’s face. “You’re tall. Do you play hockey too?”
“I do.”
“Are you a goalie?”
“How did you know?”
“The way you stand. Goalies stand differently from other players. They’re more balanced.” My father grins. “I used to watch Zane play when he was younger. He was good. Really good.”
“He was,” Tate agrees. “He’s a good coach, too.”
“Coach?” My father looks at me with surprise. “You coach hockey now?”
“Yeah, Dad. I coach goalies.”
“That’s wonderful. I always thought you’d make a good teacher.” He gestures toward the empty chairs. “Sit down, both of you. Tell me about your lives.”
We sit, and I try to figure out where to start. How am I supposed to explain two years of federal investigations and criminal syndicates and nearly dying to someone whose memory resets every few hours?
“I’ve been working with Tate. Helping him with his game.”
“And how’s that going?” Dad settles back in his chair.
“Good,” Tate says. “Really good. He’s helped me a lot.”
“Zane always was good with people. Even when he was little, he could figure out what someone needed to hear. His mother used to say he had an old soul.”
Mom. Margaret. He’s talking about her in the past tense, which means somewhere in his confused mind, he remembers that she’s gone.
“Tell me about Margaret,” I say.
“She was beautiful. The most beautiful woman I ever saw. Smart too, smarter than me.” He looks at Tate. “Do you have someone special in your life?”
Tate glances at me, and I nod slightly.
“I do,” Tate says. “Someone very special.”
“Good. Life’s too short to spend it alone.” My father reaches over to take my hand. “I’m proud of you, son.”
“For what?”
“For bringing your friend to meet me. For becoming a coach. For growing up to be a good man.”
His words comfort me now, curling around my heart. I’ve spent two years thinking I was a piece of shit, thinking I deserved whatever happened to me.
But maybe I was wrong.
“Dad, there’s something I need to tell you.”
“What’s that?”
“Tate’s not just my friend. He’s... ” I look at Tate again, drawing strength from his presence. “He’s the man I’m in love with.”
My father blinks a few times. “You’re in love with him?”
“Yeah.”
“And he’s in love with you?”
“Yeah.” Tate smiles.
“Good.” My father nods firmly. “Love is love, Zane. Doesn’t matter if it’s a man or a woman. What matters is that you treat each other well.”
“We do.”
“Then I’m happy for you.” He looks at Tate. “You take care of my son. He’s had some hard times, but he’s got a good heart.”
“I will, sir,” Tate promises.
“And you,” Dad says to me, “you take care of him, too. Good people are hard to find.”
“I will.”
We sit without talking for a while. My father dozes off but doesn’t let go of my hand.
“This is nice,” he says, his eyes suddenly snapping open. “Having you here. Both of you.”
“I’m sorry I haven’t visited more often.”
“You’re here now. That’s what matters.”
A nurse comes in to check on him, the one named Linda who spoke to me about the unauthorized visitors months ago.
“How’s everyone doing?” she asks.
“Good,” my father says. “My son came to visit. And he brought his boyfriend.”
Linda smiles. “That’s wonderful. It’s so nice when family comes to visit.”
Family. Tate and I are family now, at least in my father’s mind.
“Robert’s been talking about this visit all week,” Linda tells us. “He may not remember details, but he remembers feelings. He remembers that his son loves him.”
“Even when I’m not here?”
“Especially when you’re not here. Love doesn’t disappear just because memory gets fuzzy.”
She leaves, and my father looks at me seriously.
“I want you to know something, Zane.”
“What?”
“I may not always remember your visits. I may not always know who you are when you walk in here. But I will always love you. That doesn’t change.”
“Dad... ”
“And I want you to promise me something.”
“What?”
“Promise me you won’t stop living your life because you’re worried about me. Promise me you’ll be happy.”
I look at the man who raised me, who taught me to skate and fight and not take crap from anyone. Who’s been fading away for two years while I was too scared to spend time with him.
“I promise.”
“Good.” He squeezes my hand. “Now tell me more about this hockey coaching gig. Do you like it?”
So I tell him everything - about working with goalies, about helping players get better. Nothing complicated, just the simple stuff. Tate talks about playing hockey, tells stories about games and saves and what it’s like to be on the ice. My father listens with rapt attention.
We stay for two hours. By the time we’re ready to leave, my father’s getting tired, but he’s still lucid.
“Will you come back soon?” he asks, his voice groggy.
“Yeah, Dad. I’ll come back soon.”
“Bring Tate with you. I like him. He seems like a keeper.”
I smile. “He definitely is.”
When I hug him, his bones practically protrude through his skin, he’s so frail. But he’s still my father, still the man who taught me that being strong doesn’t mean you don’t get scared, it means you do what needs to be done even when you’re scared.
Once we’re in the truck and driving back toward the city, Tate reaches over and takes my hand.
“How do you feel?”
“Better. Lighter, maybe.”
“He’s proud of you.”
“He doesn’t know half the stuff I’ve done.”
“He knows the important stuff. He knows you’re a good man who’s found someone to love.”
“Is that enough?”
“It’s everything.”
We drive without talking for a while. I think about how maybe being good isn’t about being perfect. Maybe it’s about trying to do the right thing when everything’s fucked beyond recognition.
“Tate?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. For coming with me. For being there.”
“You don’t have to thank me.”
“I want to. You could have walked away after everything that happened. You could have decided I was too fucked up to be worth the trouble.”
“Never.”
“Why?”
“Because you don’t walk away from people you love.” He squeezes my hand. “And I’m not walking away from you. Ever.”
I lean back, watch the city lights get closer.
I can’t believe how things have turned out, how six weeks ago, I was staring down the barrel of a gun thinking I was going to die and nobody would care.
Now I’m sitting next to Tate, driving back from seeing my father who’s proud of me despite everything.
And I have people who know who I am and still stick around.
“Where to now?” Tate asks.
“Home.”
“Your place or mine?”
“Doesn’t matter. As long as we’re together.”
He grins. “That was sappy as hell.”
“Yeah. You’re making me soft.”
He releases my hand and closes his fingers around my cock. He strokes me over my jeans. A sharp gasp escapes my lips.
“Nope, feels like you’re pretty hard.”
“Mm, you’d better get me home fast, then,” I say. “So I stay that way.”